They Came to Kill

15

In a truck parked a few blocks from the walled mansion, Gadgets Schwarz monitored the three audio sources transmitting from inside the estate. He heard the sounds of clothing rustling, of footsteps, of voices speaking Russian and English and Spanish. Once he heard Powell and Akbar speak quickly in Arabic.

He mentally traced the locations of the minimikes as he listened.

The transmitters that Blancanales had placed on the Canadian woman did not move. Apparently, she had taken off her coat. He heard the sounds of a bed squeaking, then water running. Minutes later, he heard a door close. No more sound came from that microphone as the sound-activated circuits shut off.

Akbar seemed to be pacing in a room. Gadgets heard coins clinking against the disk of the transmitter as the Lebanese walked. Once when Akbar had spoken to Powell, Powell hissed him quiet. Powell knew the Soviets would be monitoring all the conversations of their guests.

Blancanales knew Gadgets listened. Blancanales could not risk a one-way conversation using the mini-mike in his pocket because of the Soviet microphones in the house, but he made a point of speaking to Illovich and Powell, commenting on the decor of the house, the rooms, the views from the windows, the angle of the sunlight in the garden.

Every comment helped Gadgets visualize the interior. He took notes, sketching the house and grounds. The sketches became diagrams. If Gadgets, Lyons and Mexicans had to break into the compound to rescue Blancanales and the others, they now had a map.

Then he heard the sounds of doors slamming, of people running through the rooms. A Russian-accented voice shouted," We go now!"

"You got the information from the Iranians?" Powell asked.

"Yes. We have. We go now."

"Finally..."

"Where are they all running to?" Blancanales asked. "Why are they bringing out the cars? Five cars? Do they think they're going to a battle?"

Gadgets signaled the Mexican lounging across the front seats. Because the Soviets had taken Blancanales's hand radio, Gadgets and Lyons could not risk using their radios. Instead, they used the radios of Captain Soto's antiterrorist unit. The Mexican spoke into his handset, relaying the information in words Gadgets recognized as Nahuatl — the pre-Castillian language of Mexico — and street jive.

"They are ready," the Mexican reported to Gadgets.

Sounds came from the minimike in the Canadian's room. Gadgets turned down the other frequencies and heard the door open, then the woman's quick footsteps. Slow, heavy footsteps accompanied her.

Bus noises from the street forced Gadgets to turn the monitor up louder. Listening, he heard the deep voice of Illovich, speaking French.

Gadgets flipped the switch of his cassette recorder. As Illovich and the Canadian spoke, the cassette machine recording their French dialogue, Gadgets checked his other equipment. He switched on the directional-impulse receiver and listened to the steady beeps on three frequencies.

Illovich and Desmarais continued talking.

What do they have to talk about, Gadgets wondered. He watched the cassette turn inside the recorder. Don't know now, but we'll know later...

Finally their conversation ended. Gadgets heard the slap of heavy footsteps receding, followed by the sound of Desmarais gathering her camera and tape recorder, then a rustling sound as she slipped on her coat. He faded down her frequency and turned up the minimikes on Blancanales and Akbar.

He heard car doors slamming. Engines gunning. Illovich issued instructions in Russian.

Gadgets turned to his driver. "This is it!"

Powell and Akbar rode in a new Dodge with Illovich. Their driver followed the line of cars through the traffic of a viaducto, one of the expressways cutting through the seemingly endless sprawl of the world's largest city.

Ahead, in a Mitsubishi passenger van, Blancanales rode with Desmarais and several Soviet gunmen. They saw the young woman turn around to snap a photo of the Dodge. A gunman blocked the lens.

"Why you letting that reporter come along?" Powell asked.

"I could ask the same question of you, American. You brought her to Mexico."

"Freedom of the press, you know. Told me she'd cut me in on the money."

"Behind the sacred principle, a profit. You Americans are not so difficult to understand."

"Hey, Ruskie, what about you?" Powell replied. "I doubt if the President knows that you of the evil empire is his friend. But you're helping him. Fact is, you're probably helping both sides. Tricky Ruskies. You all make snakes look like higher-life forms."

Illovich smiled. "I know it is difficult to understand. To think that my country would protect a government that hates us. Incomprehensible. Personally, I find you Americans incomprehensible. Your people, your government, your leaders — impossible!

"Your senators and congressmen, your President, and your President's advisors, they believe they are blessed. They walk about as if all the world loved them. Only your President has the minimum of protection. And even he, a malcontent with a twenty-two-caliber pistol shot him!

"Why must they endanger themselves? Do they realize their insatiable urge to touch the citizens, to pose and strut before the crowd threatens world peace? Are a few votes so important? Is voting so important? I think it is ironic that the Soviet Union must defend democracy from its malcontents. Oh, well," Illovich said, shrugging, "anything for peace."

"They ain't our malcontents. They're Iranian Revolutionary Guards," Powell responded.

"True. My apology. They are not Americans. But they are a product of the United States of America. The occupation and subjugation of Iran by the CIA and their puppet the Shah produced the Revolutionary Guards. Now they come to take revenge for the..."

"Yeah? What about Afghanistan? Maybe the Big Red in the Kremlin's next for a hit squad."

"Afghanistan is another example. Fortunately we Soviets and the progressive Afghan masses united in brotherly opposition to the forces of..."

Powell cut off the Soviet. "Those police cars with us? Or is the show over?"

"They are with us. This may become very sticky, you understand."

"Oh, yeah," Powell agreed. "I know about Iranians. Wish I didn't."

Staying low in the back of the panel truck, Gadgets took the Mexican walkie-talkie and buzzed Lyons. "Those police are with the commies."

"Organized operation."

"No doubt about it."

"Any word where?"

"They're not saying anything. Powell's rapping with the El Numbero Uno Ruskie, talking jive politics. Don't mean a thing. Picking up Russian from the other car. Soto know Russian? Or French? I taped Quebecky talking with El Rusko."

"I'll ask."

After a moment, Captain Soto spoke from the walkie-talkie. "I studied French in the university."

"But can you understand it?" Gadgets asked.

"I worked in a tourist shop as part of an investigation. I will attempt a translation of the tape."

Gadgets put the cassette recorder to the walkie-talkie and played back the conversation between Illovich and Desmarais.

"So what're they saying? I know it concerns us, she used our names."

"Please play the tape again. The Russian speaks French. The woman's accent is very difficult for me."

Gadgets played it again. "You got it that time?"

"I cannot give you a literal translation. But the woman works for the Russian. The Mexican police will kill the Iranians and your friends. The woman will photograph it and distribute the story. I did not understand everything they said, but..."

"You're positive? They're going to off..."

"There is more. The Soviet questioned the woman about you norteamericanos. Your descriptions. Your names. She told him you were called 'Politician,' 'Wizard,' and 'Ironman.' He asked many questions about you."

"So now he knows about the rest of us. Put the Ironman on the talkie."

"I heard..." Lyons announced.

"We've got to stop them, like now."

"Hit them first. And fast," Lyons said.

"That's my man. Always ready with the plan."

In truth, Lyons had no plan. He did not know the location of the Iranians. He did not know how the Russians would mount the assault on the Iranians. He did not know the role of the Mexican police.

But he knew the assault would end with the executions of Blancanales and Powell.

Rather than allow the unknown elements to paralyze his reasoning, to create overwhelming doubts and inaction that would condemn his friends to death, he turned his thoughts away from the unknowns and concentrated on his assets in the situation.

As he rode through the midday traffic of Mexico City, the noise of thousands of cars and trucks beating at his concentration, he mentally listed the positives.

The minimikes relaying the conversations in the Russians' vehicles.

The directional transmitters.

The limited weaponry of the Soviets and Mexican police. He knew they had pistols and submachine guns, but he doubted if they had armament matching the modern military weapons of Able Team and Captain Soto's antiterrorist squad.

Surprise. The Soviets thought they had eluded the American force tracking the Iranians.

And more important, knowledge. He knew the approximate strength of the combined Soviet and Mexican force. The Soviet leader knew nothing of the Americans following and almost nothing of the Iranians.

A realization came to Lyons. The Iranians had lost three men, two dead and one captured. They might think all three had been killed, but a cautious leader would assume their location had been compromised.

The Iranians had two options: they could run or they could stay and fight.

In Beirut, the Iranians and Libyans had set ambushes. Why not in Mexico City?

But would a firefight advance their plot to assassinate the President? The Soviets and Mexicans might find no one at the location.

Lyons thought through the possibilities. He visualized the line of Soviet and Mexican cars approaching the Iranian position. He ceased to be Carl Lyons of Able Team and considered the approach as the Soviet leader would. Then he considered the action from the viewpoint of the Iranian leader.

No one plan could anticipate all the variables. Lyons blanked out his doubts and fears. He forced his mind to formulate a plan. Then he briefed the others.

The line of Soviet unmarked cars and Mexican police cars caravanned through an industrial district. Listening to a Soviet gunman talk via walkie-talkie with other Soviets, Blancanales scanned the gray warehouses and filthy streets. Diesel trucks parked in alleys, others backed up to loading docks. Laborers crowded around the trucks, unloading boxes and sacks by hand, sweat flowing from their bodies. At other docks, skiploaders shuttled between trucks and the stacks of crates in the warehouses. The smells of rot and diesel fuel and food cooking flooded through the windows of the van.

"What's this area?" Blancanales asked Desmarais.

She did not meet his eyes. "I have no idea."

The Soviet gunman next to Blancanales jabbed him with the muzzle of a pistol. "Why you talk?"

Blancanales spotted a street sign and said the name. "You recognize that street? Where are we?"

"Why don't you ask the driver?"

"And I thought you were familiar with Latin America."

The Canadian only shrugged. The gunman jabbed Blancanales again and the American went quiet. He turned in the seat and looked behind them.

Blancanales saw cars and panel trucks leaving the line, taking side streets and alleys off the boulevard. He resumed his pretense of talking to the Canadian.

"We're close. They're splitting up. Must be intending to approach from different directions. But us and Illovich and the others are staying together."

The Canadian turned and looked. Smiling with a secret knowledge, she glanced at Blancanales and smirked.

The Dodge carrying Illovich, Powell and Akbar stayed behind Blancanales and Desmarais. The Dodge and the passenger van continued along the boulevard another block, then turned right.

"Must be close now. Here we go..."

"Are you nervous, American? Why do you talk so much? I thought secret agents were strong and silent. You chatter."

Blancanales looked back again. He saw a pickup truck leave the boulevard. Two young Mexican men in stained shirts sat in the cab, laughing with one another. The pickup truck gained on the Dodge.

Then another car and panel truck left the boulevard. The pickup truck accelerated to pass the slow-moving Dodge and passenger van. Blancanales saw the other vehicles gaining. Watching the pickup truck pass, he saw the young Mexican men eyeballing Desmarais.

The Soviet gunmen watched the speeding truck. A walkie-talkie squawked. Then, in the back of the pickup, a Mexican sat up with a silenced Heckler and KochMP-5.

Even as the 9mm slugs shattered glass, hammered sheet metal, tore through the bodies of the Soviets in the front seat, Blancanales grabbed the wrist of the gunman next to him. He forced the pistol against the front seat as the pistol jumped again and again.

Then the van crashed.

Crouching in the back of the panel truck, a round in the chamber of his CAR-15, Gadgets watched the pickup and the taxi cab gain on the Soviets. The pickup accelerated to parallel the Mitsubishi van. The taxi cab accelerated to pull alongside the Dodge.

Voices came from the Mexican walkie-talkie as units of Captain Soto's force raced to their positions on the other streets.

Gadgets slap-checked his gear a last time, touching the Velcro closures of his Kevlar-and-steel battle armor, the bandoliers of magazines and grenades, the fit of his sunglasses.

Ready to go. Gadgets snapped his bubble gum and watched as the Mexican in the back of the pickup killed the three Soviet gunmen in the front seat of the Mitsubishi passenger van. He saw Blancanales struggling with the Soviet next to him. The multiband receiver blared sounds of panic and shooting from the three frequencies of the minimikes.

Fifty meters ahead, Lyons leaned from the window of a taxi cab. He pointed the fourteen-inch barrel of the Konzak out the window of the taxi and put a 12-gauge blast through the back left tire of the Dodge carrying Illovich. The tire exploded and flapped on the rim. Lyons put a second blast through the front left tire.

Jumping the curb, the Mitsubishi crashed into a parked truck. The pickup truck glanced off a streetlight pole and skidded sideways to stop, its tires smoking and screaming.

But the driver of the Dodge accelerated, aiming the bouncing, tire-shot car at the pickup. The taxi stayed parallel, Lyons firing from the window, the Konzak flashing semiauto flame. The driver's window of the Dodge exploded, the spray of steel balls and glass cubes ripping away the head of the driver and killing the other gunman in the front seat. Lyons fired again, and blood and glass sprayed out the opposite window as the Dodge hurtled on toward the pickup.

"Dispacio! Alto!" Gadgets called out to his driver as the Dodge crashed into the pickup. Lyons's taxi fishtailed and spun, tires smoking, rear end downing a light pole. Then Gadgets saw Lyons weaving through the smashed cars, Konzak in his hands.

Gadgets's driver stopped short. The young Mexican soldier turned to him and said in perfect English, "I'll turn the truck around and be ready for the getaway!"

Throwing open the back doors, running through the acrid tire smoke, Gadgets heard pistols popping, then the Konzak boomed. He turned to see Lyons at the Mitsubishi van.

As Gadgets approached the Dodge, he saw dead men in the front seat. Suddenly the back door flew open, and Powell and Akbar dragged out Illovich.

"Slick hijack, Wizard!" Powell raved. "You guys got your act together."

"Get my partner's radio and pistol," Gadgets told him. "Then drag the comrade back to the truck..."

Powell threw Illovich down on the asphalt. Akbar put a foot on the back of the Soviet's neck while Powell searched the old man.

Blancanales and Desmarais stumbled from the wrecked Mitsubishi. Gadgets guided the stunned and bleeding young woman away from the wreckage. As he brushed broken glass off her clothes, Gadgets spoke like a gentleman.

"Are you okay, Mademoiselle Desmarais?" Dazed, she nodded. Gadgets pointed to the waiting panel truck. "In there, in the truck, you'll be safe. Sit down and be calm, you're safe now."

The young woman staggered away to the truck.

Then Gadgets quickly briefed his partner. "That bitch works for the Soviets. Get her into the truck and watch her. Don't let her talk to Illovich. Tell Powell and Akbar."

"You positive? She talks leftist, but..."

"She ain't leftist, she's red. We'll put the questions to her when we can."

Coming up to them, Powell tossed a Beretta 93-R and the Able Team hand radio to Blancanales. Then, jerking the Soviet cultural secretary up by his arms, Powell and Akbar dragged Illovich to the panel truck and shoved him inside.

A pistol popped, then the Konzak boomed and glass fell around Gadgets and Blancanales. Crouching down, they saw a blood-spurting Soviet flop backward through a shattered window of the Mitsubishi.

Blancanales jammed the hand radio in his pocket, then checked his pistol. "My other equipment here?"

"It's all in that truck." Gadgets pointed to the panel truck and Blancanales jogged away. "And watch that phony Frenchy."

Tires screeched, engines roared. Past the smashed Dodge and Mitsubishi, Lyons and Gadgets saw two cars full of Soviet gunmen racing toward them. The three Mexicans fired submachine guns at the approaching cars. Lyons rushed to Gadgets.

"Wizard, shut up and kill somebody," Lyons said as he pulled grenades from his bandolier, yanked the pins and threw the grenades one after another.

The first grenade exploded in a deafening boom, the next two poured out smoke. Gadgets realized the method in Carl Lyons's mayhem. The first grenade, an antiterrorist stun-shock grenade, had been designed to neutralize airline hijackers without killing passengers. It produced a blinding white flash and deafening blast but no shrapnel. The Soviets would think they faced heavy weapons. And if any local people watched the firefight in their street, the explosion served notice to take cover.

Skidding, the Soviets stopped short. The wall of smoke rising from the other grenades obscured their aim. Gadgets selected two fragmentation grenades and threw hard. His throws did not make the hundred-meter distance. The round canisters bounced off the asphalt and popped short of the Soviets.

But a 40mm high-explosive grenade from Blancanales's M-203 scored. A headless Soviet gunman fell. Another Soviet, blood jetting from a hundred pinpoint wounds, staggered backward through the confusion and drifting smoke. A police car, racing to the scene, hit the Soviet, flipping him broken-backed through the air.

Switching to a left-handed grip, Gadgets braced his CAR against the side of the wrecked Mitsubishi and aimed semiauto slugs into the corrupt Mexicans rushing to help their Soviet paymasters. Gadgets fired five rounds, dropped three gunmen, Soviet and Mexican.

Shouldering his M-16/M-203 over-and-under assault rifle and grenade launcher, Blancanales sighted down. He fired a high-explosive round under the nearest police car.

A ball of flame rushed into the sky. Lyons threw another smoke grenade. Gadgets hit two more gunmen, then flipped on his short assault rifle's safety. He added a red-smoke grenade to flames and white smoke, then watched for targets.

Firing broke out behind them. Though the rescue and quick firefight had taken only four minutes, the Soviets had already organized a response.

Lyons had anticipated the reaction. On the intersecting boulevard, Captain Soto's antiterrorist unit ambushed the cars of Soviets and corrupt Mexican police.

"Quit it, Wizard!" Lyons shouted out. "Pol! Mr. Marine! Time to go..."

Through the smoke and flames, Gadgets saw two more cars of Soviets and police rushing into the fire-fight. Gunmen dashed from doorway to doorway. Gadgets fired single shots from his CAR, forcing the gunmen to halt.

"Ironman! The time has come to evacuate!"

While his two buddies covered him with their submachine guns, one of the Mexican soldiers backed the pickup from the wreckage. Lyons saw the pickup coming and shouted out to Gadgets, "Wizard! Get in that truck — that one! We'll be the firepower."

"The man's got the plan!" Gadgets sprinted to the pickup and jumped in with the Mexicans. They gave him a thumbs-up congratulations on the ambush.

Gadgets saw the taxi and the panel truck starting away. Blancanales stood on the panel truck's bumper. Holding on to one of the back doors, he fired bursts of auto fire from his M-16/M-203 at the Soviets and Mexican police rushing past the flaming cars.

Lyons tossed a grenade under the wrecked Dodge and ran for the pickup. As the tires squealed, the Mexicans grabbed his hands and pulled him in.

Behind them, the grenade blasted open the gas tank of the Dodge. But the spilling gasoline did not flash.

Soviets and Mexicans rushed the wrecked cars. Taking cover behind the cars, they fired at retreating Americans. An impact punched the Kevlar protecting Gadgets's chest. The Mexican next to him grunted and fell. Glass shattered. Bullets slammed the fenders.

Blancanales aimed another 40mm grenade at the gunmen. The high-explosive shell popped against the Dodge, and an explosive wave of flame enveloped the Dodge, the Mitsubishi and several gunmen.

Lyons scrambled across the pickup cargo bed to Gadgets. "You hit?"

"Where?"

"You got the bullet, you tell me."

"I'm okay, check him." Gadgets pointed to the bleeding Mexican.

A 9mm slug had passed through the upper-right section of the young man's chest and out through his back. He screamed and gasped as Lyons turned him to glance at the exit wound. Lyons saw no blood in the Mexican's mouth. He pushed him to the side of the cargo bed, out of the way of the others. "You'll live."

The pickup hurtled into another firefight. Lyons had anticipated the Soviets and Mexican-police units coming to the aid of Illovich. He had asked Captain Soto to organize an ambush. The Mexican antiterrorist officer had directed his men to take positions on the boulevard behind the scene of the rescue and wait.

When the Soviet and Mexican-police gunmen rushed to the rescue of Illovich, they ran into the trap. Firing from the cover of doorways or protected by trucks and cars and taxi cabs, the antiterrorist unit slammed the Soviets with fire from NATO-caliber FN FAL rifles, the heavy 7.62mm slugs punching through sheet steel and flesh.

All of the Soviet cars took hits, drivers and gunmen dying. But the Mexicans hesitated to fire on the squad cars. Two police cars broke through the ambush. One continued straight on down the boulevard, accelerating away at one hundred twenty kilometers an hour to safety. The other squad car stopped and returned the fire.

In the furious exchange of fire, the Soviet survivors organized a breakout.

At that moment the pickup carrying Lyons and Gadgets and the Mexican soldiers raced into the intersection, directly into the line of fire between the Mexican ambush unit and the Soviets. The driver attempted to steer around a Soviet car, but the rear end slide slipped, and the pickup slammed broadside into an abandoned car.

Gadgets went airborne. Lyons slammed into the side wall of the pickup and bounced back. He saw his partner rolling across the asphalt. The driver floored the accelerator, and the truck spun its tires, rubber smoke clouding around Lyons as he jumped from the back of the truck.

The abandoned car separated Lyons from Gadgets. Sprinting through the smoke, slugs zipped past Lyons as the Soviets tried to kill him. He threw himself to the asphalt and crabbed around the car, auto-fire banging the fenders and door panels. Glass showered him.

Gadgets sat against the car, blood streaming down his face, his eyes fluttering with shock. His CAR-15 lay on the asphalt near him. Lyons snatched up the weapon and slung the CAR around his partner's neck.

"Hey, Wizard, up!"

"Man, my head..."

"Don't give me any excuses. We got work to do."

The panel truck and the other car skidded through the intersection as Lyons urged Gadgets up, Blancanales and Powell spraying fire from the back doors. Tires squealed in protest as the drivers managed very tight right turns and accelerated away.

Pulling a grenade from Gadgets's bandolier, Lyons pulled pins and threw one after another — smoke, fragmentation, shock-stun. Then Lyons threw the last grenade from his own bandolier.

The flurry of popping grenades silenced the Soviet gunmen for a moment, and Lyons dragged Gadgets away, staggering like two drunks. The car and billowing smoke behind them provided a shield. They lurched for the safety of the far curb.

A Mexican commando broke cover. With grenades in each hand, he sprinted to the car and threw the grenades into the smoke. He pulled two more from his pockets and threw them as the others exploded. Hurrying back, he grabbed Gadgets's elbow. Running through autofire, Lyons and the Mexican carried Gadgets to the shelter of a doorway.

Bullets chipped the stone walls above them and ricochets whined into the distance as Lyons looked for Soto. A soldier with a medical kit tried to strip off Gadgets's weapons and gear, but Lyons pushed away the soldier's hands. "Forget it! Where's Captain Soto?"

"There. The Captain is there," said the man, pointing down the boulevard. "But your man is bleeding. We must help..."

"Let him bleed! We got to get out of here!" Lyons growled.

"Thanks a lot, Ironman," Gadgets said as he struggled to his feet. He leaned close to Lyons's face and blew blood off his lip, spraying a red mist into Lyons's face. "I like you, too!"

"Shut up and move — that car! Get in there."

A ricochet slashed Lyons's right shoulder and continued into the armhole of his Kevlar battle armor. His face contorting, he arched back with agony as the jagged metal slashed across his spine.

Gadgets reached out and steadied his friend. He forced a laugh. "Ironman gets his. Time to retreat."

Lyons twisted away from Gadgets's hands. "I didn't get shit! Shoot me nine zip all day long. Get in that car. In the car! Move! Move! Move!" Lyons raged, shoving Gadgets into the car. He pulled Mexican commandos from their cover and pointed to their cars.

"But American," one soldier protested. "The Russians, they come..."

A bandolier of FN FAL magazines and grenades crossed the Mexican's T-shirt. Lyons jerked a smoke grenade from the bandolier.

"I'm covering, go!" Lyons turned and threw the smoke grenade into the noise of Soviet submachine guns. He rushed along the sidewalk. "Soto! Everyone out. We got our people. Go! The Soviets don't matter now."

Soto shouted to his men. Young soldiers dodged from cover, working closer to their cars as the Soviets continued firing.

Grabbing grenades from a soldier, Lyons threw another canister of smoke at the Soviets. Then Lyons ran through the chaos with another grenade in his hand, his Konzak hanging from his shoulder by its sling as he searched for wounded. Soto shouted out.

"American! We go, we are ready!"

"No one missing?"

"All are here..."

As Lyons ran for the cars, a burst of fire whined off the stones. He felt a slug stop in his Kevlar. Spinning, his right arm cranking back with the grenade, Lyons faced a Soviet with an Uzi.

The heavy canister of explosive and steel slammed into the Soviet's chest, staggering him back. The Soviet reached for his Uzi.

Lyons had not pulled the pin of the grenade.

Crossing the distance in three running strides, Lyons kicked away the Uzi, then dropped down and smashed the Soviet in the face with the butt of his Konzak. He hammered the struggling gunman to death.

Rifles fired. Lyons looked up, saw a Soviet flipping back.

"American!" Soto shouted.

Blood and flesh covered the Konzak. He sprayed a 7-blast burst of full-auto 12-gauge, then jerked out the empty mag and reloaded on the run back to the waiting cars.

Lyons stopped with one foot in the car, the blood-slick Konzak pistol grip in his hand as his eyes scanned the street.

Nothing moved. He heard only his blood hammering in his ears. He flipped up the safety of his assault shotgun and fell into a seat as the driver accelerated away.

Sirens screamed.